


Masque

by ryme_intrinseca



Category: The Restoration Series - Edward Marston
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Getting Together, Hair, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28879503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/pseuds/ryme_intrinseca
Summary: Bale came to an abrupt halt, the breath knocked from his body and his heart crashing against his ribs. The light revealed an unmistakable vision: the young man’s hair was an abundance of glorious chestnut curls, the flickering torch picking out hints of copper and gold and bronze.Only one man in the whole of London had such hair.
Relationships: Jonathan Bale/Christopher Redmayne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Masque

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



He didn’t belong here.

Jonathan Bale skulked on the periphery of the entertainments, keeping to the safety of the shadows. His gaze tracked over the revellers, searching for the one person who anchored him in this unfamiliar world.

Searching in vain, for he knew not what costume Mr Redmayne would be wearing; and although Bale believed most fervently he would be able to pick Christopher out of a crowd of costumed dandies, so far he had seen no one to match the image of the tall, slender young architect that he carried in his heart.

Noisome shrieks and bellowed laughter washed around him. Noblemen and strumpets disported themselves amongst the artificial splendour of the Earl of Rochester’s garden. Perfume and sweat mingled with the scents of spilled wine, fresh-cut flowers, and paint. Everywhere he looked, Bale saw a confusion of colour and spectacle.

Flambeaux threw a flattering light upon scenes of debauched revelry. In an open-sided summer house, an actress celebrated for her curvaceous figure reclined upon a divan. Her draperies revealed rather a lot of her body, a fact celebrated by a bewigged gentleman sucking on her bare toes and another man playing with her bountiful breasts while a third gentleman looked on, grunting as he attended to his own pleasure.

Beneath a trellis of blooming wisteria, a fellow sat slumped, legs a-spraddle and hips pumping; two lithe, barely-dressed youths were on their knees before him, one slurping at the man’s cock while the other slid greased fingers in and out of the man’s hungry arsehole.

Notable courtiers pursued wenches and each other about the garden, their playful, full-throated cries accompanied by the most exquisite music. An abundance of cushions and couches provided places both public and private for guests to frolic. It was as if the depraved individuals in Henry Redmayne’s painting of the Roman orgy had slipped free of the frame and carried their lecherousness into a fine English garden.

Heat scorched Bale’s face and his cock stood at full mast, stirred by the wantonness he saw about him. He wished he hadn’t accepted Christopher’s invitation, but his friend had insisted. They had both been instrumental in creating the staging for these frivolities: Christopher had designed the architectural fancies and Bale had used his skills, honed during his previous existence as a shipwright, to bring the whimsical erections to glorious completion.

A beautiful serving lad dressed only in silver paint handed him a glass of wine as deep and red as heart’s blood. Bale took it—his mouth was dry—and drank off a goodly amount. The taste was rich and unfamiliar. He preferred the honest savour of ale to this Cavalier decadence, but he took another drink, and another, until its effect made his head spin. 

He halted by a pergola he’d finished only this morning and leaned against it, letting the festivities blur past him. Voices dipped and rose, wails of ecstasy, arguments, shouts of hilarity. Words penetrated his brain, snatched from the mouths of passers-by.

“The decorations are superb! Such a shame they’ll be torn down and burned tomorrow. I must ask Rochester for the name of the architect—if this is what he can do with mere wood, only imagine what could be done with stone.”

“The fountain shoots out wine and vinegar in turn, most ingenious! I saw Sedley mis-time his quaffing and get a mouthful of vinegar. My dear, I have never laughed so hard!”

“One of the stages revolves without human assistance. That one there, do you see? Yes, the architect has created a marvel. Christopher Redmayne, I think his name is. His brother Henry is part of Rochester’s circle.”

Bale nodded as if the conversation had included him. Henry had indeed promoted his brother’s architectural skills when the earl had declared his intentions to stage a masque. Such entertainments had gone out of fashion during the reign of the King’s father, but Rochester was much beloved at court and where he led, others followed.

The masque, _The Loves of Apollo_ , was written by the host himself. From what Bale had seen of it so far, the play consisted of filthy but witty verses that accompanied thoroughly indecent tableaux. On the main stage, the framing of which he and Christopher had laboured at for many days, a bevy of scantily-clad actresses ran giggling from a gold-painted Duke of Buckingham who carried a lyre and wore a circlet of sunbeams.

Bale shook his head. The performance would’ve been better if the author of the masque had taken the role of Apollo. The Earl of Rochester was reckoned a handsome man, and was in the full vigour of his youthful looks.

Only this morning, as he and Christopher had been putting the final touches to the decorations, had Bale been introduced to the earl. Taking his cue from his friend, Bale had bowed low and, keeping his demeanour cordial, had muttered his thanks for Rochester’s patronage. The fee he’d been paid for building the stages and follies would keep his family warm and fed for several months.

The Earl had surveyed him head to toe with a curling smile and then slanted a knowing look at Christopher, murmuring, “I see you share my preferences for the muscular working man.”

Bale had blushed, but Christopher, apparently ignorant of the aristocrat’s meaning, responded, “Mr Bale is a most efficient and trustworthy constable in Baynard Castle ward. It’s my good fortune that he’s also an excellent carpenter and skilled with his hands in more delicate work.”

The praise had only made him blush harder, and as for the insinuation he thought he’d heard…

Bale cursed Rochester for directing his thoughts along lustful paths. He’d worked hard these past few years to tread the straight and narrow. As a shipwright he’d lived in close contact with his fellows, and he knew all the transgressions in which a man could indulge. What the Church preached was a sin was nothing more than scratching an itch for some of his erstwhile colleagues, while for others there was an intensity to their unions alike to that of husband and wife.

He’d partaken in the former when his blood ran hot, but yearned for the latter. Bale thought he’d found it when he met and married Sarah, his loving, cheerful wife. But she knew him better than he knew himself, it seemed, for from the very first day Christopher Redmayne had stepped into their home, Sarah had spoken of him with admiring affection and had encouraged her husband to deepen the friendship.

Did she know how deep his feelings lay? As deep and serpentine as one of London’s rivers gone underground, only to surface now and then to gush, torrential, in unexpected places.

Bale laughed at himself. Of course she knew—because without her permission and approval, he would not be here.

He drank off the rest of his wine and set the glass aside. Its potency travelled through his veins, inflaming his ardour and loosening the strict control he tried to exercise over his imagination. Senses titillated, he prowled through the masque in search of Christopher, looking here and there with bold glances.

The King’s musicians played tune after tune. Music rippled over the debauchery, lending it a performative touch. Virtue was shunned, and in every corner and in full sight, sin was indulged to loud cheers and enthusiastic participation. It wasn’t simply the nobility who acted out their base desires—apart from the actresses and bagnio-girls of Covent Garden, Bale recognised plenty of working men like himself: pretty link boys trawled from the streets of St James’s, a butcher from Leadenhall whose invitation surely rested on the prodigious size of the man’s cock; water-men who could stroke pizzles with the same dexterity with which they stroked their oars, labourers and porters upon whose broad shoulders, sturdy thighs, and strong bodies the rich would break themselves.

Self-loathing swept over him once more. He didn’t belong here. He should be back in his ward, patrolling the streets to keep its citizens safe. Bale gritted his teeth as the weight of his discomfort drooped his head. A long night of turfing miscreants out of taverns was all he was good for.

“Sir, stop, I beg you.” A woman approached, her low-cut bodice baring most of her bosom, her skirts slashed to the knee to reveal shapely bare limbs. She was smiling, and lust glittered in her eyes behind her mask of laurel leaves. “Won’t you come and keep me company for a while?”

She must be acting the part of one of Apollo’s nymphs; Bale couldn’t tell which. Christopher would know. Christopher was educated, clever, knowledgeable about the world. Misery compounding his sense of dislocation, Bale dodged away from the nymph and plunged into one of the arbours he’d helped to build. Wisteria draped and concealed him, its perfume heady and sweet.

He staggered to the end of the bower, tugging at the frippery collar of his borrowed costume. Despite the cool breeze borne on the night air, Bale felt too hot. His blood pounded in him, and he was aware of the hammering of lust. The peacock finery he wore, silks and satins in gorgeous hues, only made things worse. His flesh was unaccustomed to such decadence, the slithery seductive caress of expensive, perfumed garments.

Perhaps he should not be surprised. The costume belonged to Henry Redmayne, after all, who had been keen for him to borrow it. Bale unbuttoned the short-sleeved jacket and tore at the cravat of frilled lace, turning his head from side to side to entice the breeze to blow against his neck. He longed for his own simple garments. If only he could fling himself into one of the fountains Christopher had designed, but both were crowded—one with revellers wanting to drink wine straight from the source, the other with girls and youths in near transparent draperies sporting beneath the spray of water.

In search of peace and a quiet place in which he could relieve himself of the pressure of his lustful thoughts, Bale made his way into a darkened part of the garden. He had reached a series of tall privet hedges when he heard a cry.

“You are mistaken, sir!”

Drawn by the outrage in the tone, Bale moved swiftly to investigate. He rounded a corner and stood concealed, watching the drama play out before him.

A young man, tall and slender with his hair loose about his shoulders, was resisting the advances of an older, dissipated fellow. The young man was dressed in simple garments, almost Puritan in their design but that they were cut close and tailored to the body. A plain mask fit snug to his face, but there was no disguising the sensual shape of his mouth or the finely-modelled lines of his jaw and throat.

The older man was costumed as Bacchus. A most appropriate outfit, given the wine fumes that carried as far as Bale’s hiding place. A ratty-looking leopard-skin was slung about the drunkard’s shoulders, and he waved a sceptre topped with a large pinecone and twisted about with vine leaves. He jigged closer to the young man, leering.

“Why else are you loitering here in the dark, pretty Ganymede, if not waiting for an eagle to come swooping down? No, be not shy, my lovely! Jove himself would stoop for you; it should be no hardship for you to bend for me.”

Disgust twisted the younger man’s lips. “Again I say you are mistaken.”

Bacchus was almost salivating. “Playing hard to get, boy? Or is it that you want payment for your services? Rochester told me all the enticements on offer were free, but no matter. Name your price, Ganymede, and you will see I am not ungenerous.”

Bale crept closer, keeping to the deep shadows.

The young man made a sound of irritation and turned sharply away. 

His suitor was drunk enough to take the gesture as an invitation. With a cry like that of a huntsman spotting a fox, he lurched after the young man and laid hands on him.

A struggle broke out. It seemed obvious that the younger man would prevail, but Bacchus had the fury of wine in him and would not be thwarted. He panted, clearly aroused by the scuffle, and instead of fighting like a man, resorted to sneaky tricks in an attempt to force his victim to the ground.

The travesty had gone on long enough. Bale bunched his fists, the frustrations and disappointments of the night roaring to a climax. At last, here was something he could do. This was what he was good at—protecting those who needed his help.

The leaves rustled as he pushed away from his place of concealment. He strode across the grass, fury riding him at the sight of that depraved fiend soiling the young man with an unwanted touch. As he approached, the pugnacious pair swung about, struggling and scrapping beneath the flare of a flambeau.

Bale came to an abrupt halt, the breath knocked from his body and his heart crashing against his ribs. The light revealed an unmistakable vision: the young man’s hair was an abundance of glorious chestnut curls, the flickering torch picking out hints of copper and gold and bronze.

Only one man in the whole of London had such hair.

Dazed, he saw Bacchus grab a handful of those beautiful tresses. The young man—Christopher Redmayne, for it could be no other—uttered a furious cry.

Bale gave an answering roar and surged forward. Though he was unarmed, his anger was weapon enough. Startled, Bacchus shoved the young man aside and lifted his sceptre to defend himself. Bale came in pummelling with his fists. They closed with one another, shoving and grappling. Bacchus attempted to trip him; in response, Bale clouted the god of revelry over the head with his own vine-clad staff.

Bacchus dropped to the grass and lay still.

“Jonathan!” The young man ran to him, but stopped short of the embrace Bale longed for. “Jonathan, thank God.”

“Yes, Mr Redmayne, here I am.” Christopher had recognised him! Bale tried to squash the pleasure that sparked within him and ventured closer. “Are you well, sir?”

“Tolerably.” A short laugh, awkward and embarrassed. “Though if you had not come to my aid when you did, I could not speak as to what might have happened.” Christopher shuddered. He plucked at his costume, smoothing and adjusting the garments. His hands were trembling.

“I have never felt so disadvantaged, Jonathan. I didn’t expect to be importuned. I was looking for you. I should have known better; I know what Henry’s friends are like. Once I became aware of the nature of the entertainments Rochester had arranged, I realised how foolish I’d been in coming here. And how wrong I was to insist on you accepting the invitation. I wanted to find you so we could leave together, but that man followed me…”

He laid a hand on his cheek below the mask and made a sound of disgust. “Ugh, the scoundrel slobbered on me.”

“Here, sir.” Bale searched his costume for a clean handkerchief and offered it.

Christopher removed his mask and wiped at his face, scrubbing hard to eradicate all memory of the drunken attack. Then he held the square of linen to his nose for a moment as if inhaling Bale’s scent before he tucked the cloth into his sleeve.

“Thank you,” he said again, quieter this time.

On the ground, Bacchus stirred, clutching his head and groaning.

“Come, Mr Redmayne. We should leave here before that fallen deity wakes.”

They went deeper into the garden. The hedges closed about them, offering sanctuary. They were in a maze, Bale realised.

Beside him, Christopher laughed. It was a jagged sound, his emotions clearly still rattled. “We should beware, Jonathan, lest we lose our way in this labyrinth.”

“Don’t concern yourself with such things, Mr Redmayne. I will find a path out of here for us.”

“I can always depend on you.” The words came out on a sigh, and Christopher leaned into him so their shoulders brushed.

The contact sent tingles of delight through him. Bale resisted the urge to draw his friend closer. “Yes, sir. I am always here for you.”

The sounds of the masque seemed far away now. Music drifted like a dream. The light of the flambeaux was replaced by the uncertain glow of the moon. The hedges twisted, turned, and came to a dead end. Leaves rustled as a breeze fingered through them. Shadows clung to their garments.

Christopher gave another laugh. He seemed more himself now, and as he turned his unmasked face up, Bale was pleased to note that the shock of the attack no longer lingered in the young man’s eyes.

“I am in your debt, Jonathan.”

“No, sir, let us have no talk of debt. We are friends, you and I. You needed me.”

“Yes,” Christopher said, soft and wondering. “Yes, I did. I do.”

They were standing close together. Too close to be seemly. Bale cleared his throat, but made no move to step back. “It’s appalling that innocent folk can’t attend a masque without being assaulted.”

“Innocent? I doubt many of the guests here are innocent. As I said, I was foolish: I all but invited that misunderstanding upon myself. After all, why else do people attend masques but for the chance to frolic?”

Bale took a deep breath. “To be entertained by the witticisms and wonders on display, I should hope.”

A small smile tipped Christopher’s mouth. “Not all wonders are paraded on stage.”

“Oh, I’m aware of that, sir.”

He hadn’t meant to sound bitter. Christopher’s expression faltered, sorrow in those beloved features. “I should have known you would find this event offensive, and for that I apologise. It’s simply that I wanted you to enjoy the fruit of your labour, and to see others marvel at it.”

“God sees my work, and you praised it, too. With that I am content.”

Christopher tilted his head, his eyes dark and glinting in the moonlight. “Are you, though? Content, I mean.”

Was this a trick question? Bale struggled to find a way of speaking truthfully that would not also condemn him. “I am well satisfied with our arrangement, sir.”

“Oh.” A series of expressions crossed Christopher’s face in short order—exasperation, anxiety, determination. He came closer still, so they stood toe to toe. “For I must tell you, Jonathan, that I am not satisfied. And that was why I invited you here tonight. Because,” he hesitated, slicked his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, an action Bale watched with heated interest, “at a masque, all rules are suspended or turned upside down, and secrets unspoken can become, for a night, reality.”

That wine he’d drunk earlier must have addled his brain. Was Christopher saying…? Bale struggled to contain his hope. “Forgive me, sir, but—”

“Christopher.” His friend laid a finger against his lips to silence his protests. “You should call me Christopher.”

It was how Bale thought of him, whenever he pleasured himself or had an idle moment of daydreaming. His fear of showing his emotions too clearly to his friend had prevented him from using his Christian name before, but now there was no such impediment.

“Christopher,” he said, conscious of Christopher’s finger over his mouth. He parted his lips just to feel the pressure of the fingertip, and so Christopher would feel each exhalation of his breath.

“Why did you come tonight?” Christopher asked.

“Because you invited me.” _Because I would do almost anything you asked of me_. “I even went to your brother for advice on acquiring a costume. He lent me this, though I do not think it suits me.”

Christopher moved back to look at him. “It shows off your muscular physique. I wonder that you have not been importuned yourself.”

Bale blushed, remembering the wanton nymph. “There is only one person whose addresses I would welcome.”

The light dimmed in Christopher’s eyes. “Of course. Your wife.”

“No, sir—Christopher.” Bale hurried to correct the misapprehension. “Only one person here present. You see, I was all for refusing your invitation, even at the last moment, but Sarah bade me come enjoy myself tonight.” He found a smile. “I think she had more in mind for me than rescuing you from a drunken wastrel, though.”

Christopher came closer. “What do you think she intended you to do? For I would not gainsay her. Marital harmony such as you enjoy is rare and should be cherished.”

“We are of one mind, my wife and I.” Unable to resist any longer, Bale wrapped a strand of curling chestnut hair around his index finger. It was warm, silken. He tugged, and the curl loosened, sprang free. “We both admire you and would have you happy.”

“You make me happy, Jonathan.” Christopher’s eyes were wide and dark with starlight.

Feeling clumsy and awkward, Bale ducked his head. “I’m glad to hear it, sir.”

“Please. You need not stand on ceremony with me.” It seemed impossible, but Christopher was closer still, pressed up against him, hands resting on the borrowed jacket. “You are my rescuer, and as I am a grateful supplicant, you may ask of me anything you please.”

The possibilities exploded through Bale’s skull, as blinding as cannon fire. As dangerous, too, for when the smoke cleared, he didn’t know what he would find—victory or destruction. But that warning was not enough, not when he had hungered for Christopher for so long.

Bale ran a hand through the shining chestnut curls. He could lose himself in the sensation of them tickling over his skin. He wanted more light, so he could admire the richness of its colour, but for now he was content with the feel of it, soft and warm.

Christopher made a small sound but made no attempt to draw away. The greedy caresses seemed to bring him pleasure, for he closed his eyes and tipped his head, his expression open and vulnerable beneath the touch of the moon.

Those glorious locks sifted through Bale’s fingers. He wanted to bury his face in Christopher’s curls. Wanted them tickling over his naked chest as Christopher kissed down his body. Wanted them dancing across his thighs, damp and springing from the heat of Christopher’s mouth, from the slicked sweat of his skin.

Bale uttered a desperate oath and, tugging gently at Christopher’s hair, brought him in as close as may be and kissed him.

Christopher came into his arms willingly, sweetly, responding with equal fervour and passion.

The taste of wine on his tongue. The scent and texture of Christopher’s hair. The susurrus of velvet and satin as they moved against one another.

He would abandon himself to this man, but when the masque was over, the fire between them would not be quenched. For this was where he belonged, with Christopher Redmayne in his arms. Not just for one night, but forever.

**Author's Note:**

> John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, was more of a rake than Henry Redmayne. An unabashed bisexual and part of the ‘Merry Gang’ of noblemen, he courted scandal and was, naturally, a favourite of Charles II. Renowned as a poet and playwright—he wrote some truly filthy verses—he also acquitted himself well in battle against the Dutch. The son of a Cavalier and a Puritan, doubtless he would have approved wholeheartedly of Christopher and Jonathan’s romance!


End file.
